Sherlock's Heart
by ravenoak21
Summary: While fleeing London to get out of a sweltering heat wave, John finds himself in Surry where he gets a deeper look into Sherlock's past. And maybe the reason why the Consulting Detective considers himself "married" to his work.
1. Chapter 1

**Fleeing London to get out of a sweltering heat wave, John finds himself in Surry where he gets a deeper look into Sherlock's past and maybe the reason why the Consulting Detective considers himself "married" to his work.**

**In the original pilot for "The Study in Pink" in the restaurant, John asks Sherlock if he has a girlfriend or a boyfriend. Sherlock replies that he is married to his work and that he isn't looking for any kind of relationship at all.**

**This will be a one shot.**

**This little plot bunny comes from the Annotated Sherlock Holmes ll volumes of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's complete works by William S. Baring-Gould. **

**As always I do not own anything pertaining to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes, BBC's Sherlock, or The "Young Sherlock Holmes" movie by Berry Levinson, Chris Columbus and Steven Spielberg.**

"I hate London in a heat wave. How is it possible for a person to work up a bloody sweat while setting perfectly still...nono, no. It's a rhetorical question. No answer required because I'm a doctor and I should know the reason why one can sweat...and I'll shut up now."

A grey-green eye lazily opened and slide to where John was slumped in his favorite chair.

"Then you would be willing to get out for a few days?"

"Where to?"

"Surry comes to mind. I often go down this time of year anyway. Can you get away from the hospital or are you still on vacation?"

"How long is a few days?"

"Four any way. Longer if this humidity holds."

"When could we leave?"

"When ever you could get ready."

"Tomorrow?"

"It can be arranged."

"I'm still on vacation so yes. Definitely, by all means. Anywhere is better then here. You don't expect Lestrade to call with a case?"

"Most will be domestics caused by the heat and humidity. Predictable and boring."

A long arm flopped heavily towards the coffee table, graceful fingers groping for the mobile phone.

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For not asking me to get up and passing that to you."

The only answer he received was an audible sniff. The smile on John's face would have been more pronounced if he had the energy to put into it.

"A car is reserved. It will arrive at 8:45 am tomorrow." The phone was carelessly dropped back onto the low table.

"Why do you go to Surry?"

"It is where I was born. Rather dull, but it's a satisfactory escape from London."

0000

John leaned back in the cloth covered seat (not leather, thank heaven and Sherlock) to enjoy the brush of cool air-conditioned breeze over his face, his head rolled to his left so that he could watch the passing scenery. It was amazing how green and rolling the countryside could get once leaving the boundaries of London. The sprawling edges of the great city was beginning to swallow up the northern reaches of County Surry but there were still pockets of high hills, forests and grasslands, It truly was a beautiful landscape.

"Where exactly are we going?"

"Reigate. Not far really."

Sherlock didn't lie. Less then an hour of leaving London proper they were entering Reigate. Sherlock navigated through the countryside to a bed and breakfast. They got out and Sherlock led the way up a flower bordered walk to check in and receive their latch keys.

"Our rooms are out back in the renovated barn."

The grounds were laid out as a garden with the inn in the middle. The view was green and hilly with a pub within walking distance. Sherlock unlocked the main door and walked in John with on his heels.

"This is quite nice."

"There is a swimming pool and tennis court as well."

John explored the rooms and chose the upper story when Sherlock indicated it didn't matter to him which he took. Then it was back to the car to get the luggage. John paused then looked at his flatmate.

"You brought your violin?"

"I always do when I come down. Like I said, it can be rather dull. I can compose or just think if I cannot find something else to occupy my mind. When you get hungry there is the pub. A lot of the locals frequent it, always a good sign that the food is decent."

000

Maybe Sherlock found Reigate "a bit dull" but John had never been this far south and while it didn't have the adrenalin rush of London, he found a good deal to like about it. During the day there were historical and archaeological sites to tramp around in, or beating the heat in the pool. The pub was a lively place at night and the "locals" made much of Sherlock's annual return. There were impromptu dances with the local musicians and Sherlock providing the entertainment. The pub fair was first rate as far as John was concerned and the people out going and welcoming.

The third morning he came down to find a note from Sherlock saying that he had gone out and not to expect him back until late afternoon. John shook his head. This was typical Sherlockian behavior in London, so why should he be any different here?

Each guest room had it's own tea and coffee brewers, so John had a leisurely breakfast in front of a large window over looking the hills rolling away to the south and westward. Then he pulled out his laptop to add a bit of travel log to his blog. Between that and pouring over local maps he was quite busy until his stomach reminded that he hadn't eaten for a while so he made his way over to the pub.

A few patrons had already come in and a man and woman team took care of food and drink orders.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Watson. The menu is on the board. Mr. Holmes not with you then?"

"Oh, Billy!" The woman gave him a hard nudge as she looked at John with a twinkle in her eye.

"Why I put up with the likes of him, I tell you. Forgetting anniversaries and such as he does."

She spoke to Billy as she took John's order. "You know very well where he would be, today of all days.

She glanced up at John. "You'll find Mr. Holmes just down the road. You won't be able to miss him. Playing that beautiful violin for herself."

John glanced to the door then back to the proprietress. "I...really? He plays for a woman? Every time he comes down?

She nodded with a smile, but John caught something else as well. There was something wistful about that smile.

She handed him his order and he turned for the door. "If you want to find him, just turn left when you go out the door. You can't get lost."

"Thank you."

The day was warm but at least here in the openness of the countryside there was a breeze. Nor was the air as close and stuffy as on the streets of London right now. He found the whole thing refreshing. He had walked the better part of a mile or more when his ears perked as the strains of music reached him. He recognized a piece of Sherlock's own composing and followed the invisible strand around a church until he stood in a shady cemetery.

A perplexed frown creased John's brow as he walked down the narrow track laid out between grave markers. Sherlock talked so little about his family. Who could he be playing for? Grandmother, aunt? For all John knew it could be for a sister. When John finally spotted the violinist, he wasn't alone. Several villagers were sitting or standing in the shadow of the carefully tended shrubbery taking in the solo concert. Sherlock paid them no heed, if he was even aware of them. He stood facing a simple granite grave marker swaying gently in time with the run of the bow over the strings of his instrument.

Throughout the afternoon people would silently slip away to do what ever it was that needed to be attended to in the normal run of their day, while someone else come in to listen for awhile.

Dappled shadow played over the tableau and John's attention was caught by the wink of something bright and golden sitting on a narrow ledge near the base of the stone. He was a distance away and really couldn't make it out, what ever it was.

It wasn't until the sun had started to settle near the western horizon that Sherlock drew out one last quivering note then snapped the bow smartly against his chest and bowed his head towards the mute stone. Silently, with no applause of any kind, the rest of the listeners ghosted away. John watched as Sherlock put the precious violin in it's case then approached the stone. There he knelt for a few moments before reaching out to lightly touch the face of the stone. Then he picked something up from that narrow ledge and slipped it into a pocket and he too was gone.

John watched him go then, his curiosity piqued, moved to read the inscription. Never in his wildest dreams would he ever have imagined the inscription Sherlock had so gently traced.

In Loving Memory

Wife

Elizabeth Sophia

Holmes

1979-1998

Son

Sherlock Scott

Holmes ll

2 Days Old

John's breath hitched. No, this was the very last thing he could ever have considered.

**In the Sir Arthur Conan Doyle story "The "Gloria Scott"", Sherlock mentions that his old college friend had a sister but that she had died of diphtheria. Four Sherlockian historians believe that Sherlock had either had a tragic courtship or that he had married quite young and was left a widower. **

**In an interview I saw on Youtube someone made the comment that Benedict Cumberbatch's Sherlock resembles in physical appearance Nicholas Rowe's "Young Sherlock Holmes" so I am borrowing the name "Elizabeth" and the variation of "Sophia".**


	2. Chapter 2

**Even though I had intended "Sherlock's Heart" to be a one shot I have had some nice reviews, "favs", and "follows", and a request to do a continuation. Thank you IamDoctorWholocked for that. So yes, I have decided to add another chapter in John's POV so a third will be forth coming in covering Sherlock's POV. Love how these things just take over...mmmm.**

**I have taken quotes from "TGG" and "TSIB". They seem to be custom fit for a piece like this. For reference this would take place after "TSIB"**

**As always I own nothing pertaining to Sherlock Holmes nor BBC's Sherlock. Cheers to those who do and are doing such a bang up job of it.**

John studied the stone his thoughts scattering.

"_Will caring about them help save them?"_

John had given Sherlock a tight smile. "_Nope". _He had answered.

"_Then I will continue to not make that mistake."_

John sighed, his head dropping. Sherlock had cared deeply once and he had not been able to save a wife and child. John pinched the bridge of his nose.

"_Listen, has he ever had any kind of, girlfriend, boyfriend. A relationship, ever?"_

"_I don't know." _This from a landlady that had known Sherlock in Florida, USA.

"_How could we not know?"_

"_Sex doesn't alarm me."_

"_How would you know?"_

John gave a short snort of derisive laughter. _Right. How are we supposed to know any thing when Mr. Mycroft bloody sodding Holmes doesn't even know his own brother had not only fallen in love but had fathered a child._

"_It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me."_

_Well, here is proof positive that you, Mycroft Holmes, don't know everything "British government" or not._

"_What might we deduce about his heart?"_

John cast one last look at the stone then turned to leave the quiet grave yard. A heavy sadness setting in his chest. _What indeed. God, Sherlock, no wonder you locked yourself away. Sociopath...no. Don't believe that, but yeah, this must have put you through hell. No wonder you turned to drugs. This __would have been one bloody hell of a trigger.. Explains a lot, this does._

John walked up the road towards the bed and breakfast but instead made a stop at the pub. He didn't expect Sherlock to make an appearance, but then one never knew. The bloody man was good at putting up a convincing front but John also wanted to give Sherlock space if that is what he needed and the good Dr. couldn't imagine Sherlock not needing it. John ordered a pint of draft and took to a table. He nursed it as he entertained thoughts on distracting Sherlock. He remembered all too vividly how the consulting detective had been effected by Irene Adler and her antics. The depression, the unaccounted for disappearance, the pale hand held out for the notorious phone accompanied by the soft spoken "please".

John heaved a sigh and wondered if any of the locals could be bribed into making a raid on the bed and breakfast, allow themselves to be trussed up and pitched out a first story window. John almost chuckled. It had worked wonders for perking up Sherlock's flagging spirits for a little while not to mention the payback on that bloody American CIA agent. But in a real practical sense, it probably would be frowned upon. It had to bloody hurt to say nothing of the danger involved and he couldn't see anyone willing to make that kind of sacrifice.

The publican brought a menu and hovered for a moment until John looked up and made eye contact.

"If you will stop by the kitchen on your way to your room, I'll send a little something along for Mr. Holmes. He usually doesn't come in the night. And sometimes not the day after, if you take my meaning. So I usually send a meal his way."

John smiled. "Yes, of course. No trouble what so ever."

The man smiled, took John's order and made his way back to the bar to place it. Some of the locals started a game of darts and asked John to join them. He did so gladly. They were jovial and good company. It was close to ten when John finished the current game and his drink much at the same time. His said his good-byes and paying up his bill, left to walk the 100 yards to the rent. He noticed only a dim glow of light from the ground floor so he could safely assume that Sherlock was in and not wandering around or taken a long drive somewhere. He opened the door and stepped in.

"You can put the dish in the refrigerator. Or have a late supper yourself."

John's head snapped to the right his attention caught by the voice and a slim hand waving vaguely in dismissal of the catered meal. It was to hot even now for a fire in the grate but Sherlock sat knees drawn to chest, fingers plucking absently on the strings of the violin staring vacantly into the dark fireplace.

John glanced down at the covered plate then at the refrigerator. "Yes. Alright then."

He put the plate away and turned to glance in the direction of the setting room catching Sherlock's movement as he rose gracefully from the chair and headed for his bedroom.

"Goodnight, John."

John huffed a soft sigh and shook his head as he headed for the stairs as Sherlock's door snicked shut. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

He caught the soft strains of music as he trudged up the stairs. The violin would be almost mute from John's room but he kept the door open anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

**As promised this starts Sherlock's POV concerning the events in "Sherlock's Heart". **

**I will be making a correction and so giving an apology to those good people who live in, work in, know and love Surrey County, England. In the first chapter I gave it the spelling of "Surry" as it is here in New England, America. I did research on Surrey County while preparing this story and didn't notice until after I posted it that I had dropped the "e" for the more familiar Americanized form. No disrespect or insult intended. **

**As always, I own nothing and am making no money pertaining to Sherlock Holmes by SACD nor the brilliantly modern BBC Sherlock. All that I can lay claim to is the spooky, but rather fun, glow in the dark, Baskerville bred, plot bunny. **

Sherlock lay prone on the sofa feeling decidedly lethargic. Even his thought processes had to be curtailed. He felt like his mind had turned to a thick, cloying, sludge that brought mere thought to a slithering standstill. Anything to minimize the risk of inciting a dull headache or, worse yet, a blinding migraine. Something to be avoided at all costs. He was hoping Surrey would give some kind of relief from the high humidity if not the heat.

"_I hate London in a heat wave. How is it possible for a person to work up a bloody sweat while sitting perfectly still...nono, no. It's a rhetorical question. No answer required because I'm a doctor and I should know the reason why one can sweat...and I'll shut up now."_

Sherlock lazily opened an eye, sliding it towards his flatmate looking positively limp as he slumped in his favorite chair, head thrown back and eyes closed.

"_Then you would be willing to get out for a few days?"_

"_Where to?"_

"_Surrey comes to mind. I often go down this time of year anyway. Can you get away from the hospital or are you still on vacation?"_

"_How long is a few days?"_

"_Four, anyway. Longer if the humidity holds."_

"_When can we leave?"_

"_When ever you could get ready."_

"_Tomorrow?"_

"_It can be arranged."_

"_I'm still on vacation so yes. Definitely, by all means. Anywhere is better then here. You don't expect Lestrade to call with a case?"_

Sherlock rolled his eyes, his lips quirking slightly in disgust. The hand resting on his chest giving a flip of dismissal. "_Most will be domestics caused by the heat and humidity. Predictable and boring."_

The other arm flopped lazily towards the coffee table, graceful fingers hunting for the mobile phone he knew was lying there.

"_Thank you."_

Sherlock frowned. What exactly did John mean by that. For the invitation to get out of London at this time? "_For what?"_

"_For no asking me to get up and passing that to you."_

Sherlock could almost feel his eyes cross. _Did the man think him a total idiot. John was obviously suffering greatly from the heat. Why would he expect Sherlock to ask him to move half way across the room just to hand him a phone? _Sherlock's only response was a sharp inhale and a grimace. He missed John's smile altogether.

Sherlock found the online car rental and made the arrangements. Something with cloth seats, leather would be much to hot and uncomfortable this time of year, and air conditioning. "_A car is reserved. It will arrive at 8:45 am tomorrow." _He let the phone drop carelessly back onto the low table.

"_Why do you go to Surrey?"_

"_It was where I was born. Rather dull, but it's a satisfactory escape from London." _Not exactly the whole truth, no. But it was all that John needed to know.

000

As promised the car was parked on the curb at 8:45 the next morning. Sherlock made sure that his suitcase and the Strad was stowed carefully away. John had packed once sundown brought the temperature down comfortably enough so that moving around was less draining. They were on their way out of the city before the clock hit 9 am.

"_Where exactly are we going?"_

"_Reigate. Not far, really."_

It would take less then an hour to reach the village. Sherlock had already booked a bed and breakfast. It had once been a farmhouse that had fallen into disuse. Some enterprising people decided to renovate the barn into a two bedroom rent. The land around the farmhouse had been turned into a large garden with tennis court and pool. It was private and that suited Sherlock down to the ground. Each room was fitted out for brewing coffee or tea. A popular pub was well within walking distance so meals were not a problem.

Sherlock shot John a sideways glance as they drove. The scenery was green and rolling and his flatmate seemed to be enjoying the view as well as the air conditioning. Once they approached Reigate, Sherlock navigated to the bed and breakfast and parked. As they got out Sherlock described the layout, mentioning the two bedrooms and the pool especially. It was hot here as well, being so close to London, but the air was dryer devoid of any humidity at all which was a blessing.

He led the way up the walk for check in and receiving their latch keys. Then around to the rent to unlock and let John explore and make his choice of bedroom suites. It didn't matter to Sherlock either way so John chose the first floor room then it was back down to the car to fetch up the luggage.

John had lifted out his bag then paused and glanced at Sherlock. "_You brought your violin?"_

"_I always do when I come down. Like I said, it can be rather dull. I can compose or just think if I cannot find something else to occupy my mind." _Sherlock's sole purpose for the visit was to be able to play, even if his intended audience was beyond hearing it. But it had mattered at one time, and he felt it important to continue doing so. He really couldn't put his finger on the why of it, there seemed to be so little point after all. But it did seem to help, somehow.

That night they had supper at the pub. Sherlock was welcomed back with the local musicians throwing an impromptu party with good food, good drink, dancing, singing, and of course, music including Sherlock and his Strad. John had found some of the local maids good dance partners and the night was a success.

000

Sherlock had brought down survey maps. He showed John some of the day hikes and historical and archaeological sites. There were ruins to investigate and actual forested tracks of land. Surrey was a wide open vista. Not flat, paved, or over populated.

On the third day, Sherlock rose early, retrieved the Strad, the car keys and leaving a note for John, left. He didn't realize how automatic that had been until he was approaching an large open field. Berating himself he pulled over and threw the car into park and just sat for awhile eyes closed. At least he was finding this no longer hurt. Maybe made him a little sad, but the worst seemed to have past. Like touching a scare and remembering the cause but not the actual injury itself.

He opened his eyes and looked out across the field knowing exactly where it ended in a sharp rock strewn slope.

_No more. It's to late for anything to be found. The one piece of evidence they needed, they said they never found it. Not on Beth, not at the house, not anywhere on the slope. Leave it alone._

Taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly, he turned the car around and headed back to Reigate. There was somewhere else he needed to be anyway. He returned the car to the bed and breakfast, parked, took up the violin and walked away back down the road. He knew of the church and the tidy shaded cemetery a mile and a half down the road. It was not a long nor unpleasant stroll. The grave yard was rocked walled with a iron gate. The graves neatly spaced with room for a vehicle to maneuver

between them.

The stone he sought was simple granite with two names engraved. Reaching into the pocket of his suit jacket he pulled out a small velvet jeweler's box. He opened it and for a brief moment studied the simple gold man's band ring then placed it on the ledge that run around the base of the stone. Taking a few steps backwards, he unpacked the violin and it's bow, rosined it, then began to play.

As the music filled him, he let his mind cast back. It was during this time that he could remember her fully. See her face vividly. No more deep sorrow or pain, just a memory to be opened and cherished.

Petty thievery had cropped up at the school. At first the teachers had put it down as youthful inattention and carelessness but when laptops and significant sums of money went missing, the students were getting understandably upset. Accusations were flying but no one was doing much in the way of actually paying attention to facts. Then one student had sought Sherlock out and asked him to look into it. Sherlock had agreed to do so. He hadn't really been paying much attention. The theft's were done more of a lark then out of need.

He had started to gather what information he could from those who had lost items of worth then had taken himself off to sort through to see what could be brought into order. He had found a quiet bench in a near by park to perch, feet tucked under him, fingers steepled.

"Do you do that often?"

"Do what?"

"Talk to squirrels?"

"Don't be boring. I was merely talking out loud." He rolled his eyes but didn't bother to open them.

"And I suppose it simply stopped to listen."

"Obviously. At least the animal recognized the value of silence."

"Ah, I see. And the down side of this relationship?"

He shot the girl a sharp glance. _Local resident. Light brown, almost blond hair. Pale blue to grey eyes. Slender, almost 6' in height. Orphaned, lives with close relatives. Might be grandparents, but would say aunt and uncle, not stodgy or strict. _He gave a dismissive wave of his hand and closed his eyes. "Lack of opposing thumbs."

"And lacking in any kind of rudimentary education that would render it useful...in a human sort of way."

"You're clever. I've paid you a compliment. Go away."

"And your very rude and that is not a compliment."

He huffed, his brow furrowing. "I'm trying to think. Your putting me off."

She glared at him as he continued to ignore her, then she dropped down onto the grass beside the bench, pulled out a pad of paper, a pen, and sat looking at him. Feeling her glare, he opened his eyes and slide a glance her way. Her chin went up, her left eyebrow as well. Sherlock let his eyes slide away. This was something totally new. He brightened. Yes, something very new. Someone who didn't insult him, make fun at his methods, but actually took an interest enough to stick around. He gave her one more glance before closing his eyes, steepling his fingers under his chin, again and begin to order this knowledge of the theft's out loud. He found that after a couple false starts he could tune her presence out. Not delete her, no, just think of her as an extension of the deductive process.

When he had mentally exhausted all of the possibilities of the who, why, and how, he had opened his eyes to find the girl still setting there writing furiously. Her pen flying across the page of paper. When she had finished she gracefully rose to her feet and passed him the pad. He took it and scanned it.

"Thorough, not redundant and it seems you were able to keep up fairly well. What do you think?"

"What do I think, about this? The thievery?"

"You will find that I do not deal in trivia, nor will I repeat myself."

"Oh...well." She held out her hand for the pad and he returned it. "Well, it seems to be escalating, doesn't it. I mean. It started out with petty stuff but now it's things of cash value."

He had nodded. "Yes. It is. Who ever is doing it has learned that he can get away with it. It is inspiring him to expand his field of experience."

She had not gone away after wards. She had looked him up always asking if he was working on a new puzzle and if she could assist in anyway. It had become a true friendship. He had been right about her being an orphan and living with an aunt and uncle. He met them and they had taken a keen interest in him. Even when he had gone on to Uni they had remained in touch. On those breaks when he didn't feel like going home, Beth would invite him down to Surrey to stay with her family. She was the light to his dark. He was introverted and moody. She was spontaneous, full of mischief and adventuresome and could keep up with him on his manic days. He was dark curls and she was light brown natural ringlets. He was violin and she was harpsichord and piano.

On her 16th birthday she asked him to marry. It had taken his breath away. How could she be serious? They were both underage. His family seemed to care nothing about what he was doing or where he was. Of course she wouldn't be marrying his family, how cliché. She had dragged her aunt and uncle into the room and put it to them. He had argued against it. Did he love her? No question. What was the problem then? Laws? Forced annulments? Who need know? Let it be between themselves and her aunt and uncle as due and more then willing witnesses. Who needed paper work when love seemed to make their two hearts as one. And for him this was so true. He couldn't imagine anything more perfect. When had he ever been so happy, or felt so loved and included in something so encompassing as this love? Her love? Never. And then came the news that she was pregnant with his child and they both had wept and laughed with the joy and wonder of it all.

Sherlock was oblivious to any kind of audience. The coming and going of the villagers as he played. It was not until he ran out of the good memories that he decided it was time to stop. Dark thoughts were not for her. So, as the sun neared the Western horizon, he had snapped a salute and put the violin away. Then he had approached the stone and reverently touched all that he could of those who had given so much and meant so much. Then he pocketed the ring that matched her own and left.


	4. Chapter 4

**Well this was going to be my last chapter but I got a request from Alex455 to bring in Lestrade and/or Brother Mycroft. Will see how my plot bunny works with that. Maybe "Beth" will get her justice after all?**

**More quotes from "Study in Pink" and"TGG" included.**

**I want to thank all my reviewers, those who are favoring and following. You are all equally awesome.**

**As always, I own none of Sherlock Holmes SACD canon nor the BBC's Sherlock. Keep it coming people.**

Sherlock was mindful that the failure to find out what happened on the slope that day was largely due to his inability to divorce himself from the concern and yes, fear, of the extent of Beth's injuries and the need to get her medical assistance. There was not thoughts of preserving footprints or any kind of evidence, had there been any. All thoughts had been focused on her and their child's survival, nothing else. Sentiment, again.

Her aunt and uncle had been adamant that Sherlock allow the official police handle it. His place was by Beth's side. A large part of him was in full agreement. He had wanted to be with her. But another part wanted to be out in that field. Something had happened and he knew it hadn't been good, certainly not an accident. No, he hadn't believed it then and he didn't believe it now. Not for one second. There was the note. Who had been the sender that she would have responded to in such high spirits?. Her aunt had said Beth had been happy. Looking forward to answering it. Where had it gone to? The need to investigate this had left him feeling conflicted and torn.

In the end, in spite of all of their love and their bond, it had made no difference what so ever. The doctors had been cautiously optimistic. Yes, she had suffered a server head injury but she was young and strong. Talk to her, hold her hand. For four days he had held her gently, talked himself hoarse, even wept, but she had never rallied. The baby had come, albeit prematurely and for two days he had had a son. Then mother and son had slipped away within hours of each other.

He didn't remember much of the funeral. Beth and Scott had been buried in the same coffin. Scott bundled in his mother's arms. Sherlock vaguely remembered the support of her aunt and uncle but he had been left feeling empty, scooped out and wretchedly hollow and their words had not touched him. Like rain on a hot, dry day that evaporated before it could ever reach the parched earth beneath the dark gray clouds. Oh yes, his heart continued to perform it's biological functions. It pumped, the blood continued to flow through, but all emotion, even feeling, seemed to have disappeared.

He had felt nothing except the anger when he had been investigated for possible wrong doing in their death's. He was the boyfriend? Fiance? Lover? Nineteen and pregnant and beyond him, they had looked no further. She was still underage so their marriage could not be revealed as yet. Been close to the supposed victim in any case. Possible suspect then, if foul play was even to be considered, so the official report went. But his alibi had been air tight, he had been with his uncle all that day and in front of a whole farm of witnesses, and it held up at the inquest. The inquest had ended with the verdict of death by misadventure. Stupid, **stupid**! Out of their depth always. First Carl Powers, and now this. Except for Gregson and Lestrade, it hadn't changed. Even in silent thought it registered as a snarl of angry disgust.

He walked into the rent and flicked on a light pausing for a brief moment. Empty. No registration of presence. John out then. Pub, where else. He dropped bonelessly into the over stuffed chair in front of the cold fire place. Absently he unpacked the violin and held it, plucking the strings with his finger tips.

He had gone back to London. In the city there was "The Work". People who had problems and wouldn't or couldn't go to the police. All the better for him. If he couldn't bring justice to his own family he could for someone else and failure, this time, would not be an option. But even at times that wasn't enough and there was cocaine. He was a "proper genius," yea? Addiction? Oh please! But it had happened. But there had been Lestrade of the NSY. No questions. No prying. Just, "get off the stuff or I can't use you. You compromise and endanger any case you work on. You compromise me."

What ever the reason, it had worked. He liked working the big cases. Solving the cold cases had been an eye opener for Lestrade, Gregson, and Thompson and they started seeking him out. So the drugs had to go and it was Lestrade who had given him a place to crash or check up on him between cases. Why had he cared, besides the fact that he needed Sherlock. Sentiment? From a Yarder?

" _I will __**burn**__ you! I will burn... the __**heart**__ out of you!"_

"_I've been reliably informed that I don't have a one."_

"_Oh, but we both know that's not quite true."_

Sherlock's head rocked slightly at the sudden intrusion of the memory then his eyes narrowed. Moriarty knew of his friendship with John, the midnight meeting at the swimming pool had revealed that much. Moriarty's words revealed more. John was not the only one Sherlock had allowed to get close in the last several years and, somehow, Moriarty knew it. How many times have loved ones been used as hostages to coerce someone into acting against their otherwise strong moral principals? All to often and with disastrous results. He was then aware that someone had entered the rent and the smell of warm food permeated the air.

"_You can put the dish in the refrigerator. Or have a late supper yourself."_

"_Yes. Alright then."_

This was going to take some very serious and deep thought and right now John was concerned and worried about something and it would be distracting. Sherlock rose from his chair and strode for his bedroom. "_Goodnight John."_

The "_Goodnight Sherlock." _barely registered as he shut the door behind him. Placing the violin under his chin he began to play as he paced the room.

000

The nightmare gripped him by the throat and wouldn't let go. It was the Five Pip bombings all over again. But instead of a blind woman it is Elizabeth. The scene changes swiftly to the pool and midnight meeting with Moriarty. But instead of John revealing himself, it is a youth with his mother's hair and his father's eyes who had not lived long enough to be.

Sherlock's body jerks upright into the setting position heart pounding trying to draw breath. He fumbled with the bedclothes as fear and adrenaline courses through his body. There just isn't enough oxygen in the room and Elizabeth and Scott...he tears the duvet from the bed and wrapping it around him, heads for the door. _Not Baker Street! Alright, just...get out! No light...find the door. __**"God!"**_

"Sherlock? Easy, bloody hell...what?"

"Don't. Touch. ME!"

"Hey, hey. Calm down mate. You're fine. Really, Sherlock, it's okay."

"Can't...breath."

"Yes. Yes, you can. You are. Just.."

"Out."

"Outside you mean? Okay. Come on then. Just slow down. Take a deep breath, hold a beat then release. We're outside now. Just...that's good. That's alright. Slowly now. Panic attack, do you know what triggered it?"

"Bad dream."

"Bloody right, more like a night terror."

Sherlock took another slow deep breath and released. "The Five Pip bombings."

"Jesus, Sherlock. You didn't have anything like this after the original event. What changed? Ooohhh."

Sherlock looked at him sharply. "John."

"Was it different faces then? Someone you knew...or know?"

Sherlock was on him swift as a cat holding his head between his hands searching his face. "What do you know?"

"What? Wait...I was at the cemetery...I saw..."

"No one knows! Do you understand? You Tell No one, promise me, John."

"Of course I promise. Bloody hell, Sherlock, who would I tell. Mycroft? Not bloody likely since he doesn't know already."

Sherlock released him and stepped away. "No paper trail. No official wedding announcements. We were going to wait until her 21 birthday to make it official. The stone is only four years old."

"Walk me through it, okay? I mean, I already know some of it. You must have been pretty young, yea? And that you loved them both very much, and what ever had happened, you hadn't been able to save them."

"I told you once, John. I am not a hero."

John let that pass without comment. "She was nineteen?"

Sherlock nodded. "I was twenty one."

"An accident?"

"I never thought so, neither did her aunt and uncle. She was to far out . If she had fallen or simply miss stepped...I can show you later today how it was."

"Was there an investigation?"

"As far as it went. They had one suspect but when his alibi checked out they let it drop. They said there was no evidence of any wrong doing."

"What about yourself, Sherlock. Did you get a chance to look into it?"

"Sentiment causes doubt and confusion, John. It muddles the thinking and paralyzes it. That point has been so very eloquently brought home to me. So no. I wasn't able to do anything to help at all. I believe, however, that I have been most effectively cured of that particular defect." The words tasted bitter on his tongue but they were no less the truth.

"Love is not a defect, Sherlock!"

"It is when it can be used as a weapon. When it becomes a power play. A bargaining chip. When one seeks to dominate or even destroy the so called "object of affection."" Sherlock's voice had hardened. The tone laced with sarcasm.

Then he took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring and he drew himself up to full height. "A glorious sunrise, yes?"

Then his head snapped to the right, his body following a beat later. "Coffee, John?"

Sherlock strode away towards the rent.

_How does one look so damned graceful even wrapped in a duvet? And damn, __**damn **__Mycroft sodding berk Holmes and Jim Moriarty with him! Why can't they just drop off the face of the earth like Irene Adler! Then maybe people could live their lives in peace._

"_People don't have archenemies."_

"_What?"_

"_In real life. People don't have archenemies."_

_Yea. Well, welcome to your life, Sherlock Holmes._

John sighed and went to make the coffee.


	5. Chapter 5

**Thank big thank you to all the people who expressed the opinion that this was worthy to be a multi-chapter. You made my plot bunny very happy. To everyone who read, reviewed, Followed, and Favored, you have my deepest thanks and gratitude. You took an interest in this story that went beyond my wildest expectations. I hope you find this last chapter just as acceptable.**

**As always, I own nothing pertaining to SACD's Sherlock Holmes, BBC's Sherlock, or "Young Sherlock Holmes". **

For the second time in twenty-four hours, Sherlock pulled the rented vehicle over at the edge of the open grassy area and parked. But this time he got out and waited for John to do the same. Once his flatmate stood beside him, he indicated a spot just off to the the left in the verge of where their car was now parked.

" We found her motorcycle here. There was no sign of any other vehicle, that we noticed." His voice held a note contrition.

Then he strode away, leading up through the grass. John glanced around, taking in the open field, broken only by a single tree half way up the gently rising incline. It wasn't until they were approaching the tree that Sherlock spoke again.

"We found the picnic basket here, laid out for two but untouched."

"She was meeting someone then?"

"Yes."

"Walk me through that part, Sherlock. How did you know she was supposed to be here?"

Sherlock shot him the "Don't be an idiot. Didn't I tell you?" look but it suddenly dropped as Sherlock took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a brief moment. _No, unfair. Perhaps you haven't mentioned the note to him. Oh, for God's sake don't give into sentiment now. Let it become a mere memory. A scar. A case. _He opened his eyes and continued.

"It was about 3:42 in the afternoon when her uncle received a phone call. We were over at one of the neighbor's farms. Her uncle had installed an electric generator and it had developed some kind of short. We were there to sort it out. The phone call was from her Aunt May. She asked if I was there with him? Yes. By any chance had Beth shown up and was with us? No. Why would you think that? Beth found a note. She packed a lunch and said she was going to be at Coller's Field. That was about 10:30 that morning, she hadn't returned. Her uncle relayed the message to me and said he would drive me here. As I have related, we found her bike, the basket, but not Beth, as yet."

"Did her aunt say who the note was from?"

Sherlock seemed to study the tree as if he expected it to suddenly give up some clue. _Isn't that __what the ancient's believed, that the land, especially trees, held the wisdom, knowledge, the memory of all the events that took place and could be recovered if only one had the patients and knowledge to __unlock the mystery of how to do so? _Then he gave a sharp shake of his head and turned away. He had spent hours under this tree and he was no nearer to finding out the truth. So much for the belief's of the ancients.

"No. We don't know who sent it, or where she found it, nor where it disappeared to. The police never found it. At the end, they decided that my aunt must have been mistaken. It never existed. Heaven forbid they should consider the possibility that who ever hurt her took it away with them."

His face went grim. "But I do know whom she was expecting to see."

Before John could ask the questions that jumped to mind, Sherlock was moving again, his long legs eating up ground as they reached the lip of the incline. It was steep but one could have walked down it without to much fear of falling. But the stoney ground would have made the footing a mild challenge.

"Beth came here often. It was her "thinking place" as she liked to call it."

John looked out over a valley dotted by trees. It the northern end was a small lake or pond that drained into a riverlett running southeast. Rolling ridges broke the horizon to the south and west.. Without another word, Sherlock made his way down the rocky ground until he turned to look up at John, arms flung wide. John nodded and waved back knowing that his flatmate was marking the spot where Beth had been found. Sherlock made his way back up the hill. Once he gained the top he glanced back the way he had come then out over the valley. Then abruptly, he turned and headed back towards the car. John was catching up with him when Sherlock reached into his shirt pocket to talk his phone out.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Yes, May?"

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks and John had to back peddle not to run into him.

"You what? Calm down please. Now, say that again, slowly."

He turned to pin John his eyes gone stormy gray. "No! Absolutely not! Listen to me carefully. Do exactly as I tell you. You do not destroy it, do not touch it. I will need clean gloves. Fresh out of the package, no cleaning solutions of any sort. Do you understand? Can you provide them? Excellent. I'll be right there."

Sherlock spun and in long strides continued on towards the road John having to jog just to keep up.

"Sherlock! What was that all about?"

Sherlock turned but continued to walk backwards. "The note, John! The one the police said didn't exist. It did, it does, and Beth's Aunt May has found it!" He turned back around and was now almost running. Reaching the car he climbed in and turned the motor over. Once John was fairly safe inside, he threw it into gear and took off. A few hundred yards down the road, Sherlock turned down a tree lined drive. The house at the end was old fashioned half timbered outside with a small porch. A woman looking to be in her mid-fifties stood watching them approach one hand on the door frame. As Sherlock existed the car she moved to meet him holding out a pair of rubber cleaning gloves. He paused long enough to take them from her with a slight flash of smile before he swept past her into the house.

She paused looking after him before turning back towards John.

He held out his hand. "Hello, I'm Dr. John Watson."

She took it with a distracted smile."Hello. May Worsfold. Do come in." She held the door open for him and he passed through giving her a smile as he did so.

She cast a wistful look up a staircase before starting up herself John following. Entering a short hall she moved along to enter a room John stopping just at the door jamb. Mrs. Worsfold moved to where Sherlock was standing beside a double sized bed that took up most of the floor space that John could see.

"Her side, dear. In the bottom pillow sham. I put it back just as I thought you might like me to. So you would know exactly where it was when I found it."

Sherlock nodded. " Thank you, May."

He leaned over and taking a pillow from the bottom of a small pile, he slid his hand into the pillow case and gentle pulled out a folded piece of paper and carefully opened and scanned it quickly. His jaw tightening.

"Even I can see that it isn't quite near enough to your handwriting, Sherlock." She stood head tilted as she spoke, her hands folded in front of her.

"No. Not quite, but close enough." His voice had gone hard and monotone.

He moved to a desk and opened a drawer rifling through until he found a clear plastic page holder then slipped the folded note into it. Without giving the room another glance he moved to leave when she touched him on the sleeve looking up into his face.

"You will stay, for lunch at least?"

He stopped and met her eyes, then nodded. "Yes, of course."

Then continued to the door sidestepping John and he was gone.

May stepped out of the room and gently shut the door behind her giving John a wane smile. "It hasn't been touched since the day...Elizabeth went to hospital. He wouldn't sleep here after. I just wanted do a bit of dusting. Wash the bedding, I thought."

"It's fine, Mrs. Worsfold, I understand. It had to be very difficult, for everyone. Now that he has the note, he will go forward with an investigation. He's brilliant at that."

000

"Lestrade, I need you to pull a file from 1998. Victim's name, Elizabeth Sophia Worsfold It was closed with the verdict "death by misadventure" when no viable suspect was found and no evidence came to light."

"And you have found what exactly?"

"The evidence that the investigating officers ruled didn't exist."

"What was found and where was it found, Sherlock.?"

"A note that victim was said to have received on the day she was assaulted. It was found in the victim's bedroom by her aunt."

"Why wasn't it found during the initial investigation?"

"The victim placed it inside her pillow sham. Obviously, no one thought to look there."

"You do understand how reluctant the court will be in overturning this kind of ruling."

"I am aware."

"Right. Well, I will see what I can do, Sherlock. Don't get your hopes up."

"I do know who I am dealing with, Lestrade. Not to worry. Good-bye."

Sherlock slipped the phone away and turned to find John and May standing on the porch watching him. He moved to join them. "I have contacted Scotland Yard asking that they pull Beth's file. If the note can be proved to be viable evidence there may be a chance of getting her case reopened."

May blinked. "But what if they won't do that?"

"Then I take the case myself. You become a private client. I will be performing my own tests on the note as it is checking for latent fingerprints, for example."

She smiled and gripped his hands gently between her own. "Thank you and bless you, dear. Now, come in and eat."

000

"When will we be heading back to the city, Sherlock?'

"I would like to go tomorrow. I may need Molly's lab to run some of the tests on the note."

"Let's just hope the humidity has broken." John muttered.

His revery was interrupted by someone knocking on their door. He exchanged a questioning glance with Sherlock who only arched an eyebrow and gave a sharp shake of his head before moving to answer the door. He frowned and stepped back. "Lestrade? Why did you come down?"

"I got a copy of the file you asked for. Sherlock, are you sure you want to open this? You were the primary suspect."

"I am well aware of the facts in this particular case, Lestrade, I hardly need a lecture."

"May I see this note you mentioned?"

Sherlock hesitated for a brief moment then grabbed it off the small kitchen table and held it out to him. Lestrade took it, read it, groaned and scrubbed his face with a hand. " Tell me you're not seriously thinking about this. John, can't you convince him?"

"Yes, I am serious, very. And no, John is not going to be able to influence me in any way. This was mishandled from the beginning. If you cannot manage to be of assistance I am prepared to make this a personal investigation."

"I just bet you are, yea? Can't you do anything by halves, for heavens sake!"

"This is important to me, Lestrade. I refuse to let it go."

Lestrade slumped down into his chair in resignation. "Damn."

John sighed. "I'll make tea."

The three men stiffened as another unexpected knock sounded through the rent. Three questioning glances were exchanged and three slight shakes of the head were the only answer. John answered the door this time shooting Sherlock a quick sharp glance as he stepped back. Sherlock slowly stood and pinned Lestrade with a hard stare.

The Detective Inspector threw up his hands with a determined shake of his head. "I swear, Sherlock. I didn't say a word to anyone."

Sherlock huffed a sharp sigh. "Really, Mycroft, you red tagged this file?"

"But of course, dear brother. You were implicated in the death of a nineteen year old pregnant girl. You were innocent, who could ever doubt that? But there seemed to be some connection between you and this, young woman, and there seemed to be some question of missing evidence? How long before you took it into your head to look into that?"

Sherlock bridled at the implied insult to Beth in the simpering tone Mycroft used in the phrase "..this, young woman." His face hardened and he marched into Mycroft's personal space then spun away and stormed into his bedroom When he came back out he approached Mycroft once again grabbing his hand and pressing something into it his face only inches from his older brother's.

"Yes, she was young." He was practically spitting like an angry cat. "Yes, she was pregnant. But her status was legitimate and the child had A. Father. And. A Name."

Mycroft's face registered surprise as he searched the intense features so close to his own. He glanced down at the object in his hand. Then back up to catch the look of challenge in his younger brother's eyes. Slowly he opened the small box with a sharp gasp, snapping his eyes back up to Sherlock's.

"Yes, brother dear, married. At least in our eyes and with consent of her legal guardians. So no, I am not _"alarmed by sex" _nor was I particularly "_lonely". _Naïve? Oh well, what did I know of _love. _I finally knew how good it could be. What I had with Beth. Oh, it hurt me to lose her. More then you will ever know or can possibly understand. Not that you ever tried to. But at last I thought maybe, just maybe, I might be able to try again. As always, _Mycroft, _your timing was impeccable. You and "_the woman_" couldn't have opened my eyes more effectively if you had planned it."

Lestrade stood rooted to his spot then his eyes sort out John's asking a question. John nodded slowly. Lestrade sighed heavily and looked away.

Mycroft closed his eyes, then closed the small box. Taking Sherlock's hand he returned it and then gently curled the long fingers around it and held them there. Words seemed so inadequate now. "Sorry" would not surfice.


	6. Chapter 6

**This is written in response to a request so, I will attempt it. Some of the head canon is supplied by permission of another writer whom I follow quite faithfully. May I do justice to both. Let me know how it goes? Thanks to all of you who are still reading. It is greatly appreciated, more then words can relay.**

"Walk with me, brother?"

John knew that tilt of Mycroft's head. Had never forgotten that first meeting. But the voice was softer as was the look in the older Holmes's eyes. He looked between the two brothers. Sherlock had started to move, his body now half turned away from Mycroft even though their hands where still locked around the ring box.

Sherlock hesitated, studying his older brother, then slowly nodded. Their hands separated and both men moved to pass out of the door, the older a step behind the younger. With the sound of the closing of the door it was like a held breath released.

"Oh. Bloody. Hell" Lestrade scrubbed his face with his hands as he dropped into a chair, but the words were softly spoken. "I don't get it then. If he is capable of falling in love what is all this about not understanding sentiment?"

"It's called negative re-enforcement. Everyone he has ever loved has died. His mother, his wife and child, even Irene Adler, even though he hated her at the end of it all. He had developed some kind of attachment. A meeting of the minds, in that case, anyway."

John pulled a slight face as he sighed then automatically moved and clicked the kettle on for tea.

Greg Lestrade sighed. "Infidelity. Husbands and wives hurting and killing each other."

John nodded.

"The term "broken hearted" is not just an empty, meaningless phrase. There are two kinds. One is medical and is called broken heart syndrome. It usually occurs in moments of extreme distress. The news of the death of a loved one or at a funeral. The body is flooded with chemicals and one is adrenaline and it's very much like a heart attack in that there is chest pain. The heart actually is not able to beat normally for a time but usually recovers quickly. The psychological effects can be far reaching and can even be permanent."

John poured two cups of tea and set one down by Lestrade as he took a seat in front of the cold fireplace.

Lestrade tracked John as he sat down and took a sip of the hot liquid. "You mean, he could just not ever love again?"

"You know him, Greg. When he does anything, he puts his whole being into it. Would love be any different? And once it was taken away..." He shook his head. "Refusing to allow that kind of hurt back into his life becomes a cocoon. A safe haven. The thought of touching or being touched can become abhorrent, repulsive..."

"And his asperger's already makes physical contact distasteful."

"Yeah."

"Sod it all."

000

Sherlock stood close to the head stone his back to his brother.

Mycroft studied the simple granite then took a deep breath then released it slowly.

"Sherlock, a child?"

"I was clean, Mycroft. And I stayed that way as long as she was alive. I had no need to use. She was bright, clever and all the spontaneity I could handle but she knew when to be quiet. She helped me in my puzzles and she could keep up. I needed nothing more. She knew about the drugs and the asperger's and she didn't care. She said she would love our child regardless."

Sherlock turned to look at his brother and gave a wry smile.

"I was premature, yes?"

Mycroft's eyes went from the stone to his brother. "Did you know, Mycroft, that there are high incidents of autism in children subjected to the drugs used to induce labor? Father hated me for being, in his eyes, a genetic failure when it could very well be that he himself caused it. I am high functioning. It could be that any child of mine would not have been affected at all."

"Sherlock, I never knew the Father you describe...but if what you say is true...you never knew the man I knew as Father...and that...I do regret so very much. More then I can say."

**I want to thank the internet for the information on Broken Heart syndrome and author Andrew M. Greeley for the information on the psychological aspects of it.**


	7. Chapter 7

"All things considered I would say that point is rather moot. Love for your younger sibling was not on his agenda."

"I always looked out for you, Sherlock."

"Oh yes. You had to protect your mentally defective brother from hurting himself or, heaven forbid, do something to embarrass you. But did you ever truly **see me**? No! You have always used _his_ lens. Never did you look beyond Father's pet "experts" and their opinions, diagnosis and prognosis."

"Sherlock, please. He was our father. No child believes that a ...oh..."

"That a parent would lie to a child. Yet that is exactly what he did. To the both of us."

The two brothers stood in silence. It was finally broken by the elder.

"You will continue to look into...her death then?"

"It's the only case that ever really mattered to me, so yes. Do you object?" It was a question with a hard edge.

"No. I can have none."

"At least we can be agreed on this one thing then."

000

Mycroft's sleek car pulled away as Sherlock entered the rent.

"You're still here. Why are you still here?"

Lestrade's silent scowl was Sherlock's only answer.

"Oh, you still think I am making a mistake. So be it. I don't have to involve the Metro at all. Elizabeth has a surviving relative, besides me, an aunt. It can be a private inquiry."

"Well yes, there is that. I am still concerned about you being the only suspect that was investigated. But there is also the fact that you never told me about...this."

"You never asked, directly and there was nothing you could have done to change anything."

Lestrade gave a sharp exhale then just shook his head.

"You believe Mycroft didn't know anything either?"

"My brother believed me incapable of having an intimate relationship. He observes but he is not always able to see the whole picture. In my case he has been blinded by prejudices instilled at an early age."

Lestrade stood. "Right. Your father sounds like a right prat. If you need any help with this you know how to reach me." And he was gone.

John studied his flatmate. "You okay?"

"Really, John. I'm fine."

"Excuse me if I'm just a little bit skeptical."

"Be that as it may. I am fine. Look, John, it was a long time ago. And yes, I will always miss her. But for the first time, I cannot say I'm sorry."

John gave a sharp inhale and floundered for something to say, but in the end there was no words he could think of that would be appropriate. In the end he gave a deep sigh.

"You don't think Moriarty knew about them then."

"No, he didn't. He would have played this somehow and he certainly wouldn't have referred to me as "The Virgin" if he had."

"It triggered one hell of a panic attack."

"Incidental. Not something he could have planned and implemented. He would have made sure I didn't have any... backup."

"I see."

"I'm sure you do."

"Right. Yes, well. Are we still heading back to London tomorrow?"

"We can check the heat and humidity index. If it is still high, you can stay. I'll come get you once London is comfortable again."

"I can survive London in the heatwave."

"You were complaining about being extremely uncomfortable."

"Which is what people do in a heatwave."

"Dull. Which is why I asked you along and which is why you can stay here until the heat breaks."

John dropped his head and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Oh bloody hell."


	8. Chapter 8

**I have shamelessly borrowed a character from another author. He knows who he is and I do hope I am forgiven. His stories have set up a lot of headcanon on Sherlock's autism and ASD's. And this doctor is one of the few characters with medical background who seems to "get" Sherlock. So, here she is.**

John went up stairs but didn't go to bed, not right away. He knew that Sherlock was more then capable of taking it into his head to strike out for London alone in the middle of the night. So he packed and then carried his bags down and put them by the front door. Only then did he feel comfortable taking a lie down determined to sleep lightly.

He woke with a start to find the room still dim but with objects discernible in the approaching dawn light. He quickly dressed and went down praying that he had beaten his flatmate. Sherlock's bedroom door was still closed so he slid outside. He breathed a sigh of relief finding the rented car still parked outside. Going back inside he began to brew up some tea.

"I thought it was decided you were staying here?"

"No, Sherlock, you tried to tell me I was staying behind. This is me, making up my own mind to return to London with you."

Sherlock's only reply was to pick up his own luggage and violin and head out the door. John quickly picked up his own and followed. They dropped off their latch keys at the office. Neither of them spoke as they loaded into the car and headed north.

John's mind was full of thoughts chasing each other in tight circles. He wanted to say something, anything to get Sherlock talking but neither did he want to come off sounding angry or incriminatory. That would only work to shutting the man down more then he already was. But right now all kinds of warning bells, whistles and flags were sounding off and it was making John twitchy. He knew that this case deserved closure. Sherlock deserved it as did Beth and her child, but he was not at all happy that Sherlock was going to be the one doing the investigation. Oh, yes, the tall, curly haired brunet was the master of the cold case, no one came close to his success rate, but how would this effect the man? He had claimed that he could distance himself, but John was learning that what Sherlock said about not caring and what really went on behind those eyes were two completely different things.

They pulled up in front of 221 and unpacked, carrying everything up the seventeen steps to the flat. Still not a word spoken and John hated every second of it.

"Sherlock, just this once, can't you hand it over to Lestrade?"

Sherlock stopped on his way out the door. He paused then took a step backwards, turning slightly until he could catch John in his peripheral vision.

"I did that once John, I won't do it again. In doing so, I failed Beth and my child. I will not make that mistake this time. I'm returning the rental and then I'm going to Bart's."

John could only frown at the closing of the front door.

000

"Mr. Holmes."

"Good morning, Dr. Cohen. I trust I have not caught you at an inopportune time."

"No. Not at all." The good doctor took her seat curiosity piqued. She noticed that the older Holmes held a manila envelope in his lap.

"Some information has come to my attention that casts some light on an incident in early spring of 2000."

Dr. Cohen let her memory wander back casting for what ever Mycroft Holmes might be alluding to.

"Sherlock's rehabilitation."

"Precisely. And, more then likely, his attempted suicide two months later."

She watched as the elegant fingers opened the envelope and place a sheaf of papers on her desk.

"If you would look at these, please, and render your expert evaluation."

"You no longer believe that the cause of his rehabilitation was caused by psychotic break then?"

"No. I must conclude that my assessment of Sherlock's mental state has been, somewhat, biased. You have always advocated that Sherlock's case was not as extreme as most of the doctor's claimed it to be or, at least, was being grossly mishandled. I will then intrust this information to you."

She reached out for the papers and brought them forwards and began to read them. It was with a heavy heart that she closed them at the end and placed her folded hands over the top before looking up at the man setting across the desk from her.

"Yes, this would certainly explain the escalation in drug use. This kind of grief is hard enough for anyone to handle. But in the case of someone who is also coping with autism and ASD it would be especially devastating. To lose both a wife and child to violence. And both she and Sherlock being at such a young age. Especially as it seems Sherlock had no safety net. There simply wasn't anyone he trusted deeply enough to go to with this. Which, more then probably, facilitated the suicide attempt."

"So, my brother was capable of having a sexual relationship."

The doctor nodded slowly. "Are you asking if he would be able to fall in love and father children? Of course. It might be a strain on the woman though, depending on her own personality. But knowing Sherlock a weak willed, clinging vine type would not have attracted him in the first place. She would have to be intelligent, a match to his own high intellect. Strong willed. Very much her own person. Because his ASD would tend to make him possessive, demanding and over bearing, if she was able to push back, tell him what a prat he was and to get out of her space once in a while, set boundaries for him and tell him off in no uncertain terms when he started to cross them, that might actually make him love her all the more. The basis for a mutually strong bond."

She studied the elder Holmes for a long moment. "You knew nothing of this...their marriage?"

"No. Not until yesterday afternoon. Oh, I knew he was spending time in Reigate and of course I vetted the family. But they were respectable. The girl's uncle was a bit of an inventor. Which would have, I felt, appealed to Sherlock. And it did seem to keep him away from London and out of harm's way. I knew of the girl, but I never dreamed there would have been...any kind...of relationship. He wasn't one for making friends, especially of the female persuasion."

"Mr. Holmes, I am going to be very blunt here."

She held up a hand, her palm out for silence.

"I am going to ask that you not respond until I have had my say. Most of his life, you father, then you, have made Sherlock feel hunted. I cannot imagine the fear that thirteen year old boy must have felt learning that his very existence depended on your health and well fair. That his life was only an extension of your own.. Yes, he let me read the file and, yes, I told John Watson that I did believe you when you said you didn't know."

Mycroft shook his head slowly. The doctor nodded then continued.

"So, is it any wonder then that Sherlock learned to hide in plan sight? To keep his inner most thoughts and emotions hidden away?"

"May I ask a question here, please?"

She paused for a moment then nodded.

"Why would he feel the need to keep this arrangement secret from his family. From me?"

"Mycroft, you were taught by your father not to see Sherlock as a whole person. Didn't he?"

A slight frown rippled across Mycroft's brow.

"As I was saying, Sherlock would have felt hunted. Then you learned how to track him using CCTV. He counter acted by learning how to avoid them. I think, on some level, Sherlock enjoys the game. It would appeal to his sense of cat and mouse. He does border on the feral, I think. And, as much was you protest, it probably intrigues you as well. You both have a high sense of the dramatic."

She almost chuckled at the look of indignation in his eyes, but only just, being able to catch herself in time.

"But to answer your question as to why he would keep this to himself. He wouldn't want her to be as stifled as he felt you were trying to stifle him. And, it would be just like his ASD tendencies to need to keep her all to himself."

The doctor felt a sense of loss of this solid balance Sherlock had so needed.

"Tragically, once she was gone, he would have felt that such knowledge was rendered useless. He loved her, and, apparently, very deeply. But, more importantly, he truly needed her. But that hadn't been enough to keep her alive and with him. So why tell people about someone who no longer existed. Nothing was going to bring her back so what would it matter."

She slide the report back across the desk.

"Tragic. So very, very, tragic."


	9. Chapter 9

Mycroft made no move to reclaim the papers. Dr. Cohen settled back into her chair. She knew that what ever was on the man's mind would be voiced in no uncertain terms when he got good and ready. He took a deep breath and slowly released.

"Unfortunately, this case is not closed."

She frowned, her eyes flicking to papers then back up to the elder Holmes.

"But I took it to mean..."

"My brother believed at the time that she was assaulted with murderous intent. It was investigated as such, for a time. Sherlock himself was regarded as the prime suspect on strength of his connection with the family. No viable evidence was found and his alibi was unbreakable."

Dr. Cohen sat up her senses perked.

"The original file was pulled at Sherlock's behest. It seems a piece of of evidence has surfaced and he is determined to not only have the case reopened he planes to head up the inquiry. I have, with great misgivings, told him that I would not interfere. I now find that I regret taking that stand. But I could not produce a convincing argument against it at the time. Even now, if I was to voice my objections and concerns, they would go unheeded or embroil us in one of our famous _brotherly_ spat as is the usual state of affairs."

She had to blink it was not often one caught the elder Holmes dissembling. His concern seemed genuine. Then her mind began circling this information carefully as she interfaced everything she knew about Sherlock, the progresses he had made and every possible vulnerability. To many for her liking.

"Right. At least now we are not in uncharted territory. We do have markers to work with and, most importantly, he now has a support system."

She mentally messaged her temples. _This was so close, so very, very, emotionally close. _She just hoped the uncharted parts didn't turn out to be a mine field.

000

John sat laboriously typing out his latest blog entry when he became aware of the ringing phone.

"Hello Lestrade."

"John. Are you, by any chance, still in Reigate?"

"No. We came up to the city this morning. Why?"

"Ah. Is Sherlock there?"

"No, he's taken himself and that note off to Bart's. Is there something I can do for you Greg?"

"I was hoping so. Would you be willing to take a drive back down? I would like to see the place where...well...she wasn't a ..Ms...was she...and calling her Mrs. Holmes..."

"Yeah. It's all kind of surreal but yes I'll you show where Sherlock and her uncle found her."

"Thank you, John. I'll be around to gather you up."

John sighed as he shut down the laptop. _Should have stayed in Surrey after all. _He pulled a face at the mental image of his flatmate's face came into view wearing a very smug look. _Oh, shut up! Bloody git._

John watched for Lestrade's car to pull up and was down the stairs before the DI could insert his own key into the lock of 221.

"I'm ready."

Lestrade backed up quirking an eyebrow. "I see."

John climbed into the car and once again he was headed south.

"I'm sorry, John. I don't really know. Did Sherlock say anything about any of this before last night?"

"No, he just showed me where she was found yesterday morning."

"Before the note came to light then."

"We were walking back to the car when he received the call from her aunt saying she had found it. Then we went to collect it from her. That's when he made his call to you about pulling the case file."

"How did you find out then?"

"Purely by accident, really. I went to the local pub to get some lunch. The woman who waited on me told me he was playing his violin for someone and how I might find him. I didn't expect it would be in the cemetery. That morning he had just left a note saying he was gone for the day and that he would be back sometime in late afternoon. If I hadn't gotten hungry I still wouldn't know what the bloody man had been up to."

"So how did you two happen to end up down here?"

"I was complaining about the humidity. Sherlock asked if I wanted to get out of London for awhile to beat the heat. He said he usually came down this time of year anyway. He didn't say why."

"He wouldn't have, would he."

John gave directions until Lestrade pulled over in almost the exact spot Sherlock had parked almost twenty hours before. John climbed out of the car and moved around the bonnet to join Lestrade.

"This is about where he said they found her motorcycle."

Lestrade found himself in the middle of a flashback remembering a motorcycle ride and the skill of a coming down Sherlock had shown in balancing his weight as the passenger. He sighed. He was still trying to reconcile a sixteen year old, strung out cocaine addict with a nineteen year old capable of having a stable, loving, physically intimate relationship with a young woman and the father of a child.

He fell into step with John as the younger man started walking out into the field towards the only notable feature, a lone tree.

"Sherlock said that a picnic was laid out under here. A setting for two."

Lestrade simply nodded as they continued up the gentle incline. John stopped on the lip of the drop off and pointed down to the stoney ground.

"She was laying out there among the rocks. I am assuming she was still alive. A child was born and survived two days. That information is on the stone and that's about all I do know. Then he got the phone call. For some reason Elizabeth had put the note inside her pillow sham. Her aunt was going to do some laundry, wash the bedding and such."

"According to the file there was no indication that the investigating officers weren't even aware that they were married."

"You heard Sherlock. They were married in their eyes and by permission of her legal guardians. It does seem rings were exchanged, at least, Sherlock has his though he doesn't wear it. But as for licenses and such Sherlock told me that there was no paper trail. That's why Mycroft didn't know either."

"Somehow that seems so... unbelievable. But, you're right. By the elder Holmes' reaction, he wasn't aware of it. So...what?...he comes down here once a year to play violin at the grave at his wife and son? Right, this from a man who says he doesn't understand sentiment."

"I know, yeah. But...he said something after you left...and I swear...I really wanted to punch him."

"John?"

"He said...he said " that he would always miss her but for the first time he couldn't say he was sorry." I was totally gobsmacked, Jesus, Greg...what do you say to something like that?"

Lestrade sucked in a sharp breath then groaned. "What preceded that, John? That couldn't have just come out of nowhere."

John fell into thought "Ooohhh...the night terror! He said he had had a bad dream about the Five Pip bombings. I bet it involved his wife and child. He had one hell of a panic attack afterward. But still...Greg..."

"Then maybe there isn't anything you, me, or anyone could say, John. Maybe that's just Sherlock trying to cope."

A part of him wanted to pile back into the car and lead foot it back to London. To slap the man into protective custody while he took over this whole mess. But he knew from experience that to become to heavy handed and Sherlock shut down and tended to do some really stupid things and that's the last thing DI Gregory Lestrade wanted to happen. He also felt he needed to make two more stops.

"Can you take me to see the aunt?"


	10. Chapter 10

"Oh, Sherlock... is there a new case? I hadn't received anything from Detective Inspector Lestrade."

The tall brunet glanced up from microscope. "It's a cold case. There are no bodies to be autopsied."

Molly slipped around the table to stand as close as she dared. "A note then...a suicide? Oh, of course not...where would be the challenge in that? Okay then, I'll leave you to it. If I can assist...I'll just...be...around."

She flashed a tentative smile and scurried away. Sherlock watched her leave then slowly turned his attention back to the scope. He was able to lift three different sets of prints. One would belong to Beth, there would be no question of that, another set would be her Aunt May's. It would be the third set he was most interested in. He would make a note of this when he found a way to run the prints.

The paper had been nothing special just standard, mass produced, note stock. The ink was also common and mass produced. The note held no other leads then the finger prints. Sherlock's lips quirked into a half smile. But that would more then enough. He slipped the note and print tapes into their own separate evidence envelopes. Those he slipped into the inside pocket of his suit jacket then he headed for the exit.

000

"What are you doing here."

"I am curious to know what, if any, progress you have made in your investigation."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as his head ticked slightly to one side. "You do not approve so why don't you simply leave. Make us both happy."

"Do you trust Lestrade to run finger prints and just blythefully hand the results over to you without question?"

Sherlock froze for a few moments then slowly turned to study his elder brother.

"And you would have no such objections?"

"I am willing to run the results of your day's work. I doubt very much that the Met would agree to do the same. I have access to data bases that regular channels do not."

"What do you want in return, brother mine." The words were clipped almost spat out in anger.

The elder pinned the younger as he slowly stood to his full height looking down on the mere inch that separated them in height.

"I know how you are when you get an idea into your head, Sherlock. You take no head of your health or well being. Nothing matters to you but the chase. In helping you in this I am hoping to keep you from harrying off on your own."

Then Mycroft dipped his head looking at his brother levely.

"More importantly they were family. Your, family. Would you have ever told me about them? Truthfully?"

Sherlock picked up this violin then moved to stand in front of the window. Mycroft winched, bracing himself for the screech and abuse of the strings, but was determined no to be driven off. But Sherlock did not, as yet, lay the bow to the instrument.

"It hardly matters now, does it."

"It matters to me."

"Why? Caring is not an advantage, remember?"

"As all lives end and all hearts are broken. But that does not stop people from caring nor falling in love. Maybe you would never have elected to tell me, but what about your young lady?"

Sherlock remained silent. Mycroft paused for a few long moments. Then resignedly started to move towards the stairs. Sherlock turned his head slightly towards his retreating sibling then reached into his jacket and held out his hand towards Mycroft who moved to take the packets. It wasn't until he had almost reached the stairs that Sherlock spoke again.

"She wanted to make a formal announcement on her 21st birthday."

Mycroft paused to look back but Sherlock had turned full to the window. The strains of the violin followed him down and out of 221 and, for once, it was not discordant scrapping.

000

Lestrade had fallen into a reflective silence since they had left Beth's aunt and then the grave. John watched the scenery turn from pastoral to metropolitan. It was a far less stressful drive then the one made earlier that morning but it was still difficult to find relevant topics of conversation. It wasn't hard for John to imagine the focus of the DI's thoughts. It probably the same as his. The ground before them was so unknown and Sherlock would not be helpful in assisting in it's navigation

"I'll drop you off at Baker Street. I'll see if he's still at St. Bart's. Maybe I can get something out of Molly, if he let her know what he was up to."

"Thanks mate."

Lestrade wasn't sure if he caught just a hint of sarcasm, or not, but then John not only worked but also lived with a man who could be so damnably secretive and prickly if he thought people were pushing him to hard and he decided no to play nice with others. But prickly or not, Lestrade knew that he was going to have a heart to heart with Sherlock and soon.

000

Lestrade entered the lab area and found Mike Stamford surrounded by a bevy of medical students and one pathologist, Molly Hooper. But there was no tall lanky consulting detective anywhere in sight. Molly detached herself from the group and greeted him with a smile and finger wave.

"Good afternoon, Detective Inspector. Do you need assistance?"

"I was looking for Sherlock."

"Okay...em...he was here but he left a while ago."

"He didn't say what he was doing, did he?"

"Oh no. He had a note of some sort. At first I thought it was a suicide note then I realized how silly that was. He just said it was for a cold case."

Lestrade nodded disappointed that he had missed the man and he was probably back at the flat after all.

"All right, Molly. Thank you."

"You're welcome Detective Inspector. But I have to get back now."

"Sure, don't let me keep you."

She smiled . "You don't."

Then she wandered back to the knot of students.

000

John went up the steps to 221B to find his flat mate setting at the kitchen table/lab bench. Sherlock sat with his hand resting on the slip of paper that had been used to entice Beth out to that field. A scene he had walked through but had never processed. He closed his eyes for a long moment, then taking a deep breath, he opened them and gracefully rose from the chair. Maybe it was time to breach the walls of those memories. But now there could be no place to run to. No drugs to resort to to dull the pain. He had made John a promise. Oh, yes, he had made Lestrade the same promise, more then once. But then, Lestrade had always made the ultimatum between drugs or "The Work", easy enough to get around if the need arose, he had never made Sherlock choose between the needle and companionship, human contact no matter how minimal. John had laid it all on the line. So now there could be no going back.

John heard the slight scrape as Sherlock stood and glanced up. He sighed seeing the far away look already settling into the younger man's eyes.

"Sherlock."

The only response was a vague shake of the dark curly head and a dismissive wave of graceful fingers

"No, really mate, I think there's an angle you should consider."

Sherlock gave a slight shake as his focus shifted from deep thought to give John his attention and sighed. "Oh alright. What is it?"

"What if the person who did...who killed your wife and child...what if he is dead?"

"Is there a point behind this brilliant observation?" The baritone was a flat monotone.

"I have worked with you on a lot of cases remember? I know how this works. You aren't satisfied in just knowing the who and how, you will do what ever it takes to learn the motive. It's not enough for you that there is one. Like that damned Jeff Hope and his poisoned pills. You knew it was him, yet you needed to know exactly how he did it."

"So you are under the impression that if the killer is deceased the motive is lost. Is that it?"

"Well, yeah. What if he never told anyone. He could have taken that information to the grave with him."

"They usually do tell someone, you know. Oh, maybe not blurt it out in the middle of a pub, but a hint dropped to a confidant hoping that someone will pick up on it. Maybe they want someone to tell them it's okay, it's not truly their fault. Or the guilt drives them to want to confess. So, even if this person should be so unfortunate to be dead, he will have had friends, acquaintances, co-workers and these people need to be found and talked to. It took thirteen years for the note to surface, it doesn't matter how much more time it take to find out the rest of it."


	11. Chapter 11

**I want to thank everyone who is reading, reviewed, favorited and has encouraged me to keep on writing this story. Your support has been so very appreciated. I hope this last chapter lives up to your expectations and that I have done the whole head canon justice while keeping everyone in character.**

**As always, I own nothing pertaining to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's "Sherlock Holmes" and BBC's "Sherlock". That pleasure belongs to The Doyle Estate and all the wonderful, talented actors and writers and production staff of BBC and "Sherlock".**

"What do you mean by unfortunate... Sherlock."

"I. Want. Him, John. I want to be looking him in the eyes when he tells me why he had to hurt Beth. Do you see! It was some one close to me, to us. He knew that Beth and I were more then just friends. He had a sample of my hand writing."

"But it wasn't perfect."

Sherlock dropped onto the sofa head in hand. His fingers tugging slightly at the dark curls. Then he looked up at John.

"Do you really think she would have noticed? She would have been excited. She loved that spot. She would have caught up in the anticipation. We could not always spend time together. I was already consulting and there was always studies to take up our time. Danger would be the furthest thing from her mind. It didn't have to be perfect."

The delivery was rapid fire the last dripping with sarcasm.

John feel silent as his mind worked it's way around this argument. He shook his head.

"No one blames you for being angry we just know what can happen if you let it get out of hand. You have no respect for boundaries."

Sherlock gave a derisive huff.

John scrubbed his face with his hands. Sherlock pressed his fingers into into his temple, eyes closed tightly. He hadn't expected the breach into those memories to happen so easily. Now he had to control the release and flow. The could hardly afford to overwhelmed.

John moved to pick up the day's paper when he heard the downstairs door open and then a tread on the stairs.

"Oh for God's sake what now, Lestrade!" Sherlock was on his feet facing the door.

The DI stood in the setting room door and he didn't like what he saw, not at all. One self diagnosed sociopath wound up tight, and, unless he was seriously miss reading the signs, ready for flight.

"John, would you mind brewing up some tea?"

John tracked between the two men then nodded.

"Yeah." He marched off into the kitchen

Lestrade turned his full attention to the tall brunet keeping his voice evenly modulated.

"I just came to ask a favor, nothing more."

The stormy grey eyes narrowed. "What. Kind. Of. Favor."

"I need you to promise me that when you find this guy that you will not touch him, Sherlock."

"It's not your case. It's solved, remember? Officially closed."

"As it stands now, yes. But you will prove them wrong, you usually do. And when you do, you come to me. I am very serious about this, Sherlock. Make a citizen's arrest if you must. But you bring him in, and you bring him unharmed. I don't want to hear about you being anywhere near someone fallen repeatedly out a window, off a bridge or pushed out of a moving taxi cab, none of it. I can have the case opened on the strength of the evidence and his confession."

Sherlock threw his hands up in the air and spun away as John brought in two cups of tea and held one out to Lestrade.

"Thank you."

John took a sip from his cup as he eyed his flat mate now standing back to to them, hands on hip, head slightly bent.

"Give him some space, John. If you think things are going dicey don't hesitate to call. Or I could stay."

"No, you go on. If he does try to take a runner I'll ring you then follow best I can until you catch up."

"Alright then."

Lestrade thew a glance at the stiff backed silent man then turned and left. As he put his hand on the door latch of his car he glanced up at the window of 221B. He was a copper, right. What was another stake out, more or less? He drove away but only to weave his way back to Baker Street and took up surveillance on 221.

Sherlock turned on his heel and stalked off to his room not even giving John a glance. He needed to be alone and John's constant hovering would be nothing but an irksome distraction. Upon entering he slammed the door for emphasis. He had to pick through these memories meticulously looking for patterns. There had to be someone who was always in the picture, a constant presence.

Lestrade fished for his phone, glanced at the number then thumbed it open.

"Sherlock, is everything okay? GL"

"Go away. SH"

He closed his eyes for a second.

"How did you know. GL"

"I am not a child. One baby sitter is quite enough. One to many, actually. Go home. SH"

"We are just concerned. GL"

"I am aware. Go. SH"

Lestrade messaged his forehead.

"Don't do anything stupid...alright? GL"

"I am never stupid. SH"

"Reckless, then. GL"

"..."

"Alright. I'm going. Starting the car now. GL"

"Shut up. Leave. SH"

Lestrade huffed, thumbed the phone off and drove away.

"Any results yet. S"

"Patients brother. M"

Sherlock sat on the bed and moved so that his back was pressed against the head board and pulled his knees up tight to his chest. He had never been a social animal but Beth genuinely seemed to have liked people. Her aunt and uncle always had people popping in. Sherlock was usually drawn into the uncle's discussions on the strength of their usually involving topics of his newest brain storm, tinkering, and physics. But it hadn't meant that Sherlock hadn't noticed what had been going on in the peripheral and it was these memories he had to access.

When his phone binged he was temped to ignore it but in light that it was most likely to be Mycroft he fished it out, glanced at the number and thumbed it open.

"Alexander Phelps. S"

"Ah. I can send the file by special currier, if you wish. M"

"No. I will come to the club. S"

"Very good. When can I expect you. M"

"Twenty minutes. S"

"Everything will be in readiness. No need to thank me. M"

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes as he slipped the phone away and eyed the window. He looked at the bedside table clock. He had been in the palace for over six hours which was fine. Darkness would cover his movements in case Lestrade had taken it into his head to post plainclothes officers close by and John would be leaving him alone for the remainder of the night.

000

Sherlock leaned on the railing of Blackfriar's Bridge. The message he had sent to one Mr. Phelps from the burn phone Mycroft had provided had gone unanswered, but he was counting on the man's sense of morbid curiosity to bring him to the meeting he had set up using only Beth's full name and the date of her fall on that stoney hill side. He drew in deeply on the cigarette, a smile twitching his lips as he caught the slap of fine soled shoes on the pavement of the bridge. He blew out a stream of smoke turning his head slightly in the man's direction.

"Good morning, Xander."

"Look, I really don't know what this is about. But if it's an attempt to blackmail me..."

Sherlock pushed away from the railing.

"Oh, hardly anything so mundane as that, I assure you."

Sherlock turned to face the man pushing the hood of his sweatshirt back.

The man paled visibly. "Oh, my God...Sherlock."

"You want to try to explain what happened? You were supposed to be a friend." He was angry and let as much contempt and sarcasm bleed through as possible.

"I swear to you, she wasn't supposed to die. I...oh, please believe me. I only wanted..." The man stopped, close to tears now.

Sherlock stalked a step forward his voice snarling.

"You Only Wanted What."

"I wanted her love me, as she seemed to have fallen in love with you. I had always loved her. Since early grades." He stopped again and swallowed deeply.

Sherlock's hands fisted tightly. "All of this over sentiment? You loved her so you hurt her?"

"NO! Aren't you hearing me! I mean, yes...I hit her...but she wasn't supposed to be badly hurt. Just enough to think it was you who accosted her. I wanted her to hate you and I...I was supposed to be there to pick up the pieces."

Sherlock's eyes flattened as his voice went monotone.

"You made four mistakes. 1. You did not take the time to forge my handwriting properly. 2. You handled the note leaving finger prints. 3. You placed her among those rocks. I was not allowed up there. That was her private place. I was allowed no closer then the tree. And 4. You. Hit. Her! Something I would never have done. No matter how angry I got at her. And she would have known it immediately. You have twenty-four hours. Go to the Met and make full disclosure or I do it for you. I have the note and your finger prints."

"The...oh good lord...I believed that to be lost forever. I hunted for it."

Sherlock just looked at him then started to turn away.

"I have a wife and a teenage boy, Sherlock! I can't just...it was an accident!"

"It was hardly an accident, Xander. You hit her on purpose. You did it with the intent to hurt her...and me... in the process."

Sherlock held up his left hand to let the gold band gleam dully in the early dawn light.

"I had a wife and child as well and you MURDERED THEM!" He stilled and took a deep breath held it then released it slowly. "I am sure I don't have to tell you on who's finger the mate to this lies. Twenty. Four. Hours."

Sherlock started to walk away when he heard the change in the man's breathing and slight change of stance.

"I really wouldn't to that, no, I must insist against it. Make any kind of menacing movement towards me right now and I can guarantee that you will not be opening up your shop this morning."

**EPILOGUE**

After climbing back through the window, Sherlock changed out of the street clothes into pajama bottoms, t-shirt, and blue dressing gown and slipped the gold band off and put it back into it's box, ruffled his hair and meandered out to the setting room to find John setting in front of his laptop staring blurry eyed at the screen.

"Go to bed John."

He made his way to the sofa, flopping onto it hands folded under his chin. John yawned and stretched.

"Was your trip through your mind palace successful then?"

"Perhaps but not quite conclusive at this time. You can get some sleep now. I promise to behave."

" . That would be a first. Night."

"It's morning, John."

"Right." And he shuffled off.

Sherlock let himself drift into a post-case doze only to awake to the ring of china on china and the smell of toast and scrambled eggs and frowned.

"What time is it?"

"It lives."

"There is no need to be snappish I just asked for the time."

"It's almost half five, in the morning."

John moved into the living room to pick up the daily as Sherlock swung his feet onto the floor sitting up and ruffling his hair lightly. He glanced up as John scanned the paper, a headline catching his eye. Heaving a deep silent sigh, he stretched back out on the sofa and closed his eyes.

"You are right after all"

John paused then gave his flat mate a slow gaze.

"Right...about what?"

"About the Beth's killer being dead."

John opened his mouth, closed it, then frowned.

"How did that happen."

"That you are right, or how did he die?"

John rolled his eyes and huffed. "How did he die, you prat. If you know."

"Suicide. Though he did leave a note, or rather, a confession."

John sat up straight and swung around.

"He said that his purpose was not to kill Beth, but to frame me for the attack on her. He said he loved her. If he loved her, wouldn't he want her to be happy? If she was happy with me, would that not have been enough?"

John scrubbed his face with his hands.

"Oh, Sherlock. Love has little to do with logic. It's an emotion of the heart. The mind isn't always engaged enough to make sense sometimes."

"Then...what is the use of it, if it can cause such chaos, such pain?"

"That is a question that poets, philosophers, theologians, and other lovers have been wrestling with for centuries. So far, they don't seem to have made much head way in understanding it all."

"But you seem to be able to fall in love quite easily...and your poetry..."

"YES! Well...yes. But some people feel the, chaos, half the fun."

"Someone once referred to it as a "game". Are there rules then?"

"No, not really. If people say so, they're lying. Every man and woman is different, Sherlock. And when it comes to love, rules seldom if ever apply. What works for one situation or person, may not work at all in another or for another."

"Sentiment, then and purely emotional."

"Yeah. Pretty much."

Sherlock flopped onto his side, facing the back of the sofa.

"I don't understand it, John. And I don't think I like it. Not at all."


End file.
